But Watkins’ protestations became piteous. She described herself as all of a tremble, and as unable to stir. Anne tried arguments to no purpose until her patience failed.
“If you like it best then,” she said, “you must stay here until we can send for you, for I am going to walk, and the coachman thinks they can get the carriage home by leading the horses.”
“What, stay here by myself, ma’am, in this dismal road!” cried Watkins, roused to protest.
“If you can’t walk. Unless you prefer to get into the brougham.”
This she declared to be out of the question, and was melting into tears, when the young farmer, moved to compassion, stepped forward with a suggestion. A little way from the road, it appeared, there was a house. If the young lady felt herself able to walk so far, he would be happy to show her the way, and she could stop there until they sent a trap from Oakwood. Watkins, taking a good look at him, and recognising a preserver in a very personable young man, closed her eyes again, sighed, and consented.
“The young lady being provided for, now for the young woman,” said Anne, turning with a smile to Wareham. “I am not so helpless as Watkins, but to walk in the rear of this melancholy procession is not particularly inviting. Is there no shorter way across the fields?”
He glanced at her from head to foot.
“You don’t look fit for walking,” he said, “except in the park.”
“I don’t dress for the lanes,” she answered coolly.
“And your shoes are absurdly thin.”